


The Side of the Angels

by VaguelyDownwards



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyDownwards/pseuds/VaguelyDownwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-off. Aziraphale gets a visit from a young man who is, for once, not interested in threatening his shop or buying any of his precious books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Side of the Angels

“Nice bookshop you’ve got here.”

Aziraphale stiffened at the voice and narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t, generally speaking, very quick on the uptake, but he’d heard that particular threat enough times to know where it was going, thank you very much. “I’m sorry?” he said in a measured tone.

“I said, nice bookshop. Impressive collection of antique books. Honestly, I’m surprised some of these even exist. Would’ve expected anything this old to have crumbled to dust by now.” The speaker strolled into view from behind a bookshelf. He seemed awfully young to have such an interest in books, but then, Aziraphale reminded himself, they were never actually interested in the books. His dark suit was a better cut than Aziraphale was used to seeing on the thugs that visited his shop. Maybe he was attracting a higher class of criminal. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

“I’m not selling it to you. Or paying for protection, or whatever racket you’re on about this time,” Aziraphale said with as much aggression as he could muster. His visitor looked genuinely surprised.

“Oh, no no no no, I wouldn’t dream of it! I don’t see enough places like this as it is,” he said. There was something pleasing about the cadence of his voice, Aziraphale thought, something singsong. Maybe this fellow wasn’t so bad.

“Sorry, it’s just, well. Most of the time when people compliment me on my shop, they quickly lead into how flammable the books are, and how it’d be a shame if anything happened. A lot of wink wink, nudge nudge nonsense,” he explained.

“ _Do_ they,” said the visitor with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, I’ll have a talk with some people. It would be a sin to threaten a treasure like this. Is that really a Wicked Bible? I thought all of those had been burned.”

“Er, yes. It is, I mean. Not for sale, though,” Aziraphale beamed. “I suppose it’s probably covered under coveting they neighbor. I’m fairly certain He meant it to apply broadly, but I never really asked, to be honest.”

“Would it be too much trouble if I just admired the place for a while? It’s so empty and quiet in here. Helps me to think. I’ll understand if you want me to purchase something first…”

“Oh! No, no trouble at all!” Aziraphale said hastily. “No need to buy anything. It’s quite alright, dear boy, trust me.”

He smiled lazily. “Excellent! Believe me when I say that you are truly a force for peace and goodwill in London. Can’t get a moment’s rest out there in the busy world.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Aziraphale, feeling like he and this stranger were definitely on the same wavelength. The other man wasn’t listening, though. He was taking inventory of Aziraphale’s collection with a feeling akin to awe. There were books on those shelves that some men would kill for. Well, no, he corrected himself, they would hire _him_ to kill for them. And he, in turn, would delegate that job to someone better suited to it. Killing was messy business, after all, and he’d never been able to get the bloodstains out of that Armani.

In point of fact, he’d had quite a few offers on the place already. When the third team of agents had disappeared, however, only to be found weeks later working as missionaries for a tiny village in Peru, he had begun to get suspicious. As apparently none of his men had the finesse to do the job properly, he’d been forced to make it a personal visit.

He hadn’t lied. It _was_ a nice shop. And as a man whose business was his brain, he appreciated someone who was able to cultivate actual silence in the middle of the city. He considered the issue for a bit. The shopkeeper seemed harmless enough, but obviously there was something about him that made a diverse group of hardened criminals yearn for rural South America, and it wasn’t the exciting opportunities in the drug trade. It wasn’t like he was like he was lacking for clients, and he’d turned down contracts for lesser reasons in the past. And he was certainly entitled to act on whims and fancies. That settled it, then. He’d just declare the whole shop off limits, save himself the trouble. And he’d have to send someone to clear out that Peruvian mission, tie up those loose ends. Easily done. One less thing to worry about, and he’d have gained himself somewhere to relax in the process.

“Well, I’d best be on my way,” he said at last. “Thank you, Mister…?”

“Hm? Oh! Fell. Mr. Fell,” said Aziraphale absent-mindedly. “And you are?”

“James Moriarty. But you can call me Jim.” He gave Aziraphale a sly look, and the angel wondered if he was being flirted with. _Again._ Why was it the young men of London always got that impression of him? At least this one seemed nice enough. He’d been so polite, and very clean. You didn’t see enough of that in today’s youth. Aziraphale watched him leave with the sort of divine fondness he tried so hard to project towards all of God’s creation.

The next day there was a parcel waiting outside the shop. Inside, carefully packed in at least three layers of padding and a watertight plastic seal, was a pristine copy of _The Portrait of Dorian Gray._ First edition, in perfect condition. Any other collector would have discarded it as an obvious forgery, but Aziraphale had ways of knowing when a book was genuine. He pulled on a pair of soft white gloves and reverently lifted open the front cover, wary not to crease the spine. A note was tucked inside, handwritten in small, neat letters.

> _Dear Mr. Fell,_ it read—
> 
> _I have seen to it that you will have no more trouble with threats to your delightful little shop. I hope this is an adequate compensation for any inconvenience you may have suffered. It’s always been a favourite story of mine. A twist on the classic Faustian tale in that in the end, there’s not any devil at all. Not really. Only people. An interesting little window into human nature, don’t you think?_
> 
> _Cheers,_
> 
> _Jim_


End file.
